“You’re angry,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened just enough to drag against my nerves. “Good.”
My breath catches. “Why is that good?”
“Because it keeps you honest.”
“And this?” I challenge, even as my voice thins, betraying me. I gesture between us. “What does acting on this keep me?”
His thumb presses once on the hollow at the base of my throat.
“Close.”
And then his mouth is on mine. Hard. Urgent.
Certain.
It steals the breath right out of me, his hand tightening just enough to hold me there as his other slides along my side, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us at all.
I should push him away, settle all of this Deacon stuff. Force him to either help me or let me leave. Because those are the only two options.
I don’t.
My fingers curl into his shirt instead, gripping, anchoring on to something solid while everything else slips.
I make a little sound, and his mouth slows, moves more softly against mine, more sweetly. He angles his head and takes his time, not chasing anything, not demanding—just claiming what’s already his.
It’s no less devastating for the tenderness.
That thought should piss me off. It doesn’t. It makes something low in my stomach tighten instead. I’m not accustomed to sweetness.
I shift closer without thinking, my body responding before my brain can catch up, and his hand slides from my side to my hip, fingers digging in just enough to make me feel it.
I kiss him back harder.
There it is. The edge. The push. The part of me that doesn’t know how to do anything without going all in.
His grip tightens in response, one hand still at my neck, the other dragging up under the hem of his shirt where it hangs on me, fingers brushing bare skin in a way that makes my breath hitch.
“Yeah,” he mutters, low enough that it feels like it belongs to me more than the room. “That’s what I thought.”
Heat spikes sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else—anger, frustration, the weight of everything he just told me—and for a second, I hate how easy it is to get lost in this.
To not think. To not feel anything except him.
His mouth shifts, trailing just enough to the corner of mine, then down—slow, deliberate—along my jaw, stopping just below my ear.
“You don’t get to shut down on me and pretend this isn’t happening,” he says, voice rough against my skin. “Not after that.”
“I’m not?—”
My words break off as his hand tightens at my hip, jerking me flush against him.
Liar.My nails dig into his shoulder. He huffs out a quiet, satisfied breath against my throat. For a second, everything narrows to just this.
Just him.
Just the way his hands feel on me, the way his voice drops and roughens when he’s this close, the way my body reacts like it’s already decided on something my brain hasn’t admitted yet.
And that’s a problem. Because underneath all of that?—
